


The Man with a Twisted Lip

by mechanonymouse



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adultery, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanonymouse/pseuds/mechanonymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My writings of Sherlock's puzzles have always been well appreciated and I know have been missed by our readers during my hiatus.  I apologise for being so remiss and hope this tale of one of his more elegant mysteries begins to make amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man with a Twisted Lip

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Modern Doyle fest on Livejournal and beta'd by the brilliant Cherrytide

The beginning of June was humid and still: the summer of the last year of my marriage. We still cared for one another in the way of old close friends and could happily while away an evening in the same room. Taking comfort in each other’s company without feeling the need to speak of anything of consequence.

The events I want to write about began on one such night. My Mary was doing the last of the year’s marking and I writing one of my stories of Sherlock. 

Of all the things I regret about our marriage it is that I was as much caught up in Sherlock when I was with my wife as when I was with him and I would leave with him upon his merest whim. 

My Mary is the most gentle and loving soul, her devotion to those she loves and her understanding of those who wrong her is unending. She draws the broken and the needy to her like birds to seed. One of those she drew to her was Kate Whitney. Kate is a good friend and colleague to Mary; their acquaintance blighted by one distasteful element. 

Her husband Isaac is an unrepentant heroin addict and writer of some unfortunately popular novels fuelled by his binges. Some days you can see glimpses of the man who captured her so that she clung to the slim hints of him and couldn't bear to leave as long as he had not truly destroyed all traces of the man he once was. This balmy June evening was not one of them. Of late Isaac would take off for days and return a pallid shaking wreck of a man in whom I could see no merit and whose excesses exceeded Sherlock at his worst.

Kate had spoken often to both myself as a doctor and my wife as friend of the grief her husband's addiction and recent derelictions have caused but the obvious solution seemed too much for her to contemplate. When the doorbell rang as my wife set down her marking at last and I left off my writing for the night it could be none other than Kate Whitney.

"Oh, Kate," My wife said, opening the door to a frantic blur.

With her typical gentleness and kindness of heart she settled the distraught woman enough for speech and Kate began with her normal apologies for calling so late. "I couldn't think where else to go." She murmured into her tea.

Considerate to the woman as ever my wife assured her it was no trouble. 'Is it something you can speak of in front of James or would you feel more comfortable if we were alone?"

Kate glanced at me through her lashes at my wife's slip. Guilt flooded me that I was away so often Mary thought of James as her companion more easily than I. "Oh no, no! I would be grateful for John's advice too. It's about Isaac."

The story Kate gratefully told was unvaried from any other time she had told it over our three year acquaintance. Isaac had been back on the methadone, the man Kate married playing happily with their children until he grew frustrated with his lack of progress on his latest novel and took off again. He had left a week ago and she had heard nothing of him since: the longest time he had ever been gone, she tearfully expounded. She was sure he would be at a Peckham flat but it was late, the area unsavoury and she, a woman alone, an easy target. "Please," she begged "will you come with me?" 

As usual I promised to go alone, waiving off her weak offers to assist me and asked her for the address, promising to return with him in two hours. Within ten minutes my cab was trundling through the quiet London streets.

As I had come to expect of these jaunts, there was no difficulty in finding or obtaining entrance to the den Isaac was holed up in.

The lift was broken and the stairs heavy with the smell of urine. Old needles and condoms were scattered indiscriminately. The den itself was nominally guarded by hooded youth more interested in his iPhone than the door and barely lit. 

When my eyes became adjusted to gloom I began to make out the haphazard bodies scattered about every surface. Methodically I made my way through seeing old and young in the same state of glazed incoherence. Tired of this game I called out, "Isaac!" 

A body moved and half lidded eyes blinked through the gloom at me. "John, is that you?" He slurred flopping back down to lie on his back on the filthy floor. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven." I started towards the man, thinking to pull him up and into the cab.

"And the day?" His limbs flapped aimlessly preventing me from lifting him.

"Friday June 19th ,” I replied curtly dodging one stray fist from hitting my face.

"The 19th," his panic stilled him long enough to drag him to his feet. "Why would you lie like that man? It's the 12th - I've been gone barely a day."

"It's the 19th." I said pulling the man bodily forward. "Your wife has been worrying about you for another week."

His legs gave way, forcing us to stop. "It's only been a few hours. Three pipes,maybe four. Just enough to break this damn block. I wouldn't upset my sweet Katie like that." His speech gave way to full body wrenching sobs, allowing himself to be lead through the room.

As I half dragged, half carried him though the tight passage way out of the flat we passed a tall man, his face lined with age and unfamiliar to me. He was so affected by the drug that he fell into us crushing me against the wall. His face came to rest on my shoulder and I cringed away from the hot breath I felt against my ear until Sherlock's familiar voice whispered, "It's good to see you, John. Can you get rid of the inebriate?"

"I've a cab outside." I whispered back.

"Then get him in. He's too drunk for anything else." Sherlock's hands flapped in a parody of the lack of control induced by the drug, pressing himself tighter to me. "Text your wife that I need you and meet me at the off-license in five minutes."

I have always found it hard refuse any of Sherlock's requests. The way he phrases them makes them feel eminently logical and they are uttered with an air of mastery that commands my immediate obedience. I felt my fool’s errand at an end after pouring Isaac into the cab, a quick "Met Sherlock JW xx" would ensure my Mary felt no distress at my absence and I could think of no better way to spend the evening than caught up in one of Sherlock's mysteries.

I had barely arrived at the shop when Sherlock still in his junkie persona listed down the street, managing to crowd me into the wall again a small smirk on his face as he towered over me. 

With one discreet arm he urged me to walk on down two streets, his steps seeming to get less steady as he tumbled us into shop doors and walls coping a feel with each fall until he tangled our feet so completely as to drive us into an unlit alley. Half way down he drew away standing properly and rubbing a wet wipe over his face. 

When I turned to look at him Sherlock Holmes was grinning broadly back at me, "So John," his voice shook with suppressed laughter, "did you think I have decided to swap my oxycodone for heroin?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," said I, "It was a surprise to see you there."

"No more than it was for me to see you." Sherlock threw his arm over my shoulder and drew us along.

"What were you doing there Sherlock?" I gave him the opening he was hoping for and knew he was smiling fondly down at me.

"I have taken on the most remarkable case. In its essence it is simplicity but the details bother me and the conclusion is elusive." His voice became more serious and he stopped playfully tugging me close, letting us walk companionably side by side. "I hoped to find some clue there but my life would be forfeit if those who run it were to catch me there. I would be just another body in the Thames."

"You can't be serious." I stopped to look up at him.

"Your friend has fallen in with distributors not simple dealers. If we could prove every murder committed in that tip we would be rich but very much bored." His tone flicked from matter of fact as he had described his possible demise to darkly humorous on the last sentence. He started us walking again, "I fear Neville St Clair is one of them but his poor wife refuses to believe it and for their children’s sake I hope it is not true.” 

Sherlock broke off for a long moment. His voice when he began speaking again was as cold as it always became when he was trying to ignore the great heart he kept so well hidden. “There's nothing I can find that says the man was an addict. All who knew him speak of a polite, gentle man who loved his wife and children without doubt or malice. They say you couldn't believe him to be a journalist." Sherlock stopped speaking again this time pulling me close to his side. The case must have nudged at both his protective urges and his keen sense of justice for him to be so tortured by it.

"His workplace laid him off 12 weeks ago but his wife tells me he brought home an income each month equal to his salary and he went to work at the normal time each morning." He held his hand out for a cab. “There’s no sign the man was a criminal but I cannot find what he did after leaving the train at Elephant and Castle.” As usual a free cab appeared within seconds and Sherlock cut himself off to ask abruptly, "You'll come?"

"If you need me." I answered pointlessly. We both knew there was no way I would be returning home.

"I've always need of you." We got in and Sherlock gave and address in Lee. "My room has a double bed."

“Sherlock.” I said. He lay his palm on my back high above anywhere that might titillate even as he held me closer than any brother. Sufficient to remind me that he was he, the case was god and I only an onlooker privileged to observe his genius. 

Sherlock was silent and close in the cab. His body tense against mine for most of the ride. We were maybe a mile from the St Clair's house when he sighed and pulled out his cigarette. "You always know when what I need is quiet and your company John." He took a long drag blowing out a stream of slightly scented steam that curled around our heads. "She'll hear the cab come running out and I have nothing but bad news for her. My thoughts are filled with case and none of them are pleasant."

"You have said nothing of your case Sherlock, only the victim. Maybe speaking of it to me will help you put your thoughts in order."

"Neville St Clair went to King's where he met Olivia Matthews, the orphaned daughter of a brewer based in Lee, whom he married and now has three children with. He worked as an investigative journalist for the Times before being laid off in the aftermath of the phone hacking scandal. As far as I can tell he had no connection to the scandal believing in hard graft and borderline stalking to get his stories.

“The family home was inherited by Olivia from her parents, who paid off the mortgage prior to their deaths, and both husband and wife were educated before Student Loans. The family only debt is a credit card bill of £50 and the only vice the man seems to have is a love of golf.

"Last Monday he went in as if for work, as was his habit, a little earlier than usual promising to collect their youngest son's birthday present while he was out. By chance his wife had a training seminar at Guys and St Thomas. Her train was unexpectedly cancelled and she found herself with two hours to spare in Peckham Rye. Bored and overheated, she took to wandering the town in search of somewhere to cool down. Walking though the estate she saw her husband in the living room window and, it seemed to her, that he was beckoning her. She describes him as being in an agitated state and while he still wore the same jacket he left in she could see neither shirt nor tie.

"Worried about her husband she ran to the flat she had seen him in and attempted to force her way past the boy guarding the flat but he was feeling unusually vigilant." He quirked a queer smile at me. "Here's where it gets odd. She was lucky enough to stumble across a police officer who, eager for a reason to enter the premises, agreed to accompany her. In the living room the only conscious person was a disfigured man wearing her husband’s jacket.

"The man, known as Harry Dune, is a sometime busker, Big Issue seller and beggar. He has a badly healed scar bisecting his face, pulling his lip in to a constant sneer and preventing him from opening his right eye fully. His hair is styled in filthy dreadlocks more from neglect than any apparent desire that may once have been red and he walks with a pronounced limp. His appearance is so arresting and his repertoire of retorts so extensive that people who regularly cross his path regard him with some form of fond pity and tourists feel obligated to donate to his cause.

“I have often thought of adding him to my Irregulars but he’s inconsistent and too well known. He is also now the only suspect in what we must assume is a murder investigation."

"Do you think he did it?" I asked. My friend was rarely wrong in his suspicions although he hated to voice a theory until he was certain.

"There is something in the case that bothers me. I only hope your presence will help make it clear to me."

There he fell silent and refused to give voice to another of his thoughts until we arrived at the St Clair’s.

Their house is located on a neat residential street upon which it stands out for its relative age. The others being Victorian terraced houses while the St Clair home was clearly a grand Georgian house in its time. We had barely drawn into the street when a petite blonde woman ran from the house.

She was beautiful in the way women can be once youth and its indignities have passed, light laughter lines edging her mouth and silver beginning to thread her hair. She had a face that looked as though it should be full of mirth and cheer but today was blotchy and swollen with tears.

She grabbed my friend's hand as we exited the cab begging, "Please tell me you have good news, Sherlock?"

Only one who knew him would see how it pained him to reply with a negative, "I'm sorry Olivia," he clasped his hands over hers and flicked his eyes at me, "I fear I bring only more questions." 

I lay a comforting hand on her back and we walked her inside. "I hope you don't mind me imposing upon you."

She blinked, "It's a mess and Sherlock has the only spare room."

"We're old close friends," Sherlock assured her, "John will be fine with me.” I squirmed internally at Sherlock’s blunt phrasing but she was so deep in her grief that she just  
collapsed on to a sofa her face in her hands. Sherlock perched himself gargoyle-like on a chair and I sat myself down the sofa a professional distance from her. “Now, when you saw your husband that day was he close enough that you would have known what he said?”

“Yes.” She replied looking up startled.

“And you are sure it was merely an incoherent noise?”

“Yes.” She was looking as thought she might cry again and Sherlock would have no patience for having his queries interrupted if he thought they might bring him to the solution of his puzzle. 

Sweeping my eyes idly around the room for a distraction they fell upon a photo of an amateur theatrics group. Olivia stood laughing in the centre looking up at a tall man, his arm draped over her. "Your husband?" I asked indicating the man.

"God no!" she exclaimed, a shocked smile coming to her face as she looked at the photo. "That's Toby, Nev's best mate." A tiny girl slipped through the door her eyes wide until she saw her mother’s face. "Nev hates to act. Hair and makeup, that's Neville's domain. You can't tell Tobe's natural hair is black can you?"

The girl sidled up to Sherlock pulling his hand firmly until he lifted her up, his normal gentleness with children making his movements fluid and relaxed as he settled her in his lap, even as his eyes were fixed on that photo. She raised her mouth to his ear, not quite getting the concept of whispering yet but managing to obscure her question. Sherlock looked down at her a peaceful expression on his face that twisted my stomach. "Not yet but I think I might have an idea." He smiled, "Now if it's time for grown men to sleep, isn't it also time for little girls to be in bed?"

She looked solemnly up at him for a moment her face close to his. Then she slipped from his lap and moved to pull me up. I have often envied him his ease with children, that only child I feel truly comfortable with is Mary’s daughter. Awkwardly, I allowed her to lead me to the room Sherlock was staying in. She then released me to hug Sherlock's legs and disappeared into another room off the hall.

Sherlock's room was the same mess as any place he occupies; half a suit strewn over the bed, at least three newspapers on the floor and his tablet half hidden under his greatcoat. He cleared the bed with one long sweep of his arm before gathering up all of the pillow and throws in the room and beginning to arrange them in a nest on one side of the bed. During this process he turned to half face the door and saw me still standing there. "Well John." Sherlock said, "Go get ready for bed."

Fighting down an embarrassed flush I said clearly, "I don't have anything to sleep in."

Sherlock's eyes ran down my body in a parody of his normal intimacy pausing only for a perfunctory leer. He fished about in the depths of his bag until he retrieved both the vial of nicotine for his cigarette and a one of his soft grey t-shirts. Throwing the t-shirt at me he turned back to constructing his nest.

The en-suite similarly showed signs of Sherlock's occupancy although he had thankfully left his experiments at Baker Street. Grimacing, I used his tooth brush and stripped off everything but my boxers. Sherlock's boxers would never fit and Mary deserved better than for me to put myself in a situation I would never be able to resist. The t-shirt he had thrown me was bad enough: skin tight and thick with the smell of his cologne and detergent. 

When I left the en-suite and dropped my protective bundle of clothing Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to me. The look on his face was truly aroused as his gaze lingered on my chest and dipped down to my groin. I froze, guilt a heavy lump in my stomach even as my body reacted to his attention.

Sherlock crossed the room in one long step to stand in front of me so close I could feel the heat of his body. He allowed me a second of conflicted hesitation before his hand curled around my hip his thumb leaving a burning path just below the hem of my boxers as he manhandled me onto the bed. His touch was demanding, allowing no resistance from me. I found my objections fading away and my body melting into his. He pulled the covers up around my chin carefully leaving his nest undisturbed.

He grasped my shoulder firmly looking down on me. "You, John, are a light illuminating the way for me." Letting go he crawled over me and arranged himself in the nest of blankets and cushions. "Inspiring my genius to greater heights than would be possible without you." I thought he might continue but he cupped my ear with one hand and used the other to hold the e-cigarette he favoured now between his lips as his eyes drifted closed in thought. 

I fell asleep to his quiet rhythmic breaths as his great mind turned over the puzzle and he was in the same position when he woke me with a sharp tug on my ear. His fingers gently soothing the pain away even as my eyes flickered open. 

"Still asleep John?" He purred excitement lighting his face. I responded automatically body tightening in anticipation of his touch. "Would you be interested in testing a hypothesis?" 

"Always Sherlock," I answered my constant refrain, I would follow him into death if it was what he desired or needed of me.

"Then get dressed." He removed his hand, "No one's awake yet. I hope to have this solved before Olivia and the children leave for the morning."

As I dressed to the predawn light pollution Sherlock spoke on the phone to a warden contact of his at Wandsworth, alternately threatening and cajoling until he wrangled us a visit with Harry Dune, who was held there on remand until his trial for the murder of Neville St Clair. He handed me the phone and we crept from the house towards Lee train station through the quiet streets past dark houses, their owners either up and away already or barely stirring.

The station not yet busy but beginning to bustle with tired eyed office workers; early morning commuters coming to wake up the financial districts, those cold grey towers that dominate the city and are, in an unfortunately real way, the only London that matters. 

Sherlock's sharp elbows ensured us two seats in a corner and he leant down to my ear. "Call Sergeant Hopkins." He whispered, his breath tickling my neck.

My fingers moved over the key pad without thinking, typing her number from memory and feeling Sherlock's broad smile as I confirmed some supposition of his. "Hi, Rachael," She groaned at my voice, "Sherlock has been hired to work on Neville St Clair's murder-" I felt Sherlock's body tighten against mine involuntarily. “disappearance,” I corrected feeling Sherlock relax again, "He's had a break through, wants you to met us at Wandsworth." She agreed, relief tinging her voice. The worst part of a case is when you know that the victim is dead but you can't give the family any closure.

Rachael beat us there, laughing with Sherlock's contact as they waited for us.

"Does Mary know you slept with her?" Sherlock asked in a conversational tone as she came into view. 

I froze my heart racing but he just kept walking up to them. One of these days he would say something like that in front of Mary or I would disappoint him so that he would leave me forever. To my embarrassment I couldn’t and still can’t even having experienced both decide which one is worse, to hurt Mary or for Sherlock to be gone.

By the time I'd caught up his contact was already leading us to an interview room. "Careful," He said mocking, "Pongs a bit, that one."

Sherlock smiled smug and certain as we walked in, letting me walk by his side. "Hello Neville."

"What?" Rachael asked, "Don't waste my time, Sherlock."

"Couldn’t let them make you wash or it would all come undone, could you?” Sherlock mocked throwing the same packet of wet wipes that stripped his junkie persona away down on the table in front of Dune. “I'm sure your wife would rather have you alive and know what you've been doing than dead." Sherlock's voice was the same firm commanding tone he used when he wanted me to do something I wasn't sure of. "You're brilliant at makeup, disguises. Know what to draw a person’s eye too. What will make it so all they see is the disguise. 

“The hair's a good touch, amazingly well done. Did you find someone who wanted give up their dreads or make it out of real hair? No, real hair. Truly a master at work. If it was just the scar and it would be so obvious even the Met would get the idea to look behind it." Dune picked up the wipes somewhere in Sherlock's monologue. "Add in the limp and you’re positively harmless. A figure of pity, only feared because of our own uncertain security. Technically you haven't committed any crimes. You have no case to answer for. If you take the disguise off we can be out of here before your wife leaves for work."

Dune looked at Rachael in silence passing the packet of wipes from one had to the other until Sherlock began to fidget. Finally Rachael said, "If Sherlock's right and you really are Neville St Clair then all you've done is waste police time. I'm sure that we could avoid those charges if you'll remove the disguise."

Dune pulled a wipe from the packet beginning to rub it over his face as he spoke, "I'm sorry. Olivia'll be so embarrassed when she finds out." The wipe dropped to the table and he reached up slowly to pull the the wig from his head untangling it from his own shoulder length red hair.

"You'll be retiring Harry Dune, Mr St Clair." Sherlock said, standing "Leave the wig here. Will that be enough Sergeant Hopkins?"

She gingerly picked up the wig, "I'll need to take your statement, Mr St Clair, but that can wait until after you’ve reassured your wife and children that you are still alive."

Sherlock sat close to me on the cab ride one of his hands between us twisted in the hem of my shirt as his post case high kicked in. Neville thankfully never spoke, twisting his hands and biting his lips with nerves for the entire journey, much slower now the morning rush hour had truly began.

The streets that had been so still when we arrived last night and barely stirring this morning were now a bustle of activity, vivid neons flashing between subdued grey. The multicultural mix of London savagely beaten into submission by corporate image.

The St Clair house bustled with furious disjointed activity that led nowhere. The girl saw us first, the black cab drawing into the drive as she sat staring out the window. She watched Sherlock and I exit her face falling until her father finally dragged himself from the car.

Out the door she flew ignoring her brothers' panicked cries and into his arms. "Abby," she settled into his arms sobs racking her small body, "my baby. Don't cry, daddy's here." Rocking his daughter he walked straight into the irate body of his wife.

Reaching up she took Abby from him sending her inside and closing to the door behind her. "Nev." Olivia asked.

"I'm sorry," Neville blabbered. "I didn't mean it…When it started it-"

"You were playing one of your characters." She looked up at him, "One of your beggars. Couldn't admit you were laid off. Couldn't admit it was you when I saw you."

"I-"

"Sherlock, do we need to stay?" I asked him.

"What made you think it was a good idea!" She asked."We don't need the money. And even if we did we would still need you far more!"

"It was a paying case." Sherlock murmured in my ear.

She pressed tight to him pulling his neck down to kiss him briefly on the lips. "Go take a shower. I need to pay the detective for finding you." 

She seemed completely unashamed of her outburst, agreeing the fee with Sherlock easily before turning and following her husband into the house, a signed cheque in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock and I settled back into the cab. “221b Baker Street,” he said and I should have argued but his hand was warm on mine; his fingers twined with mine.

I let him take us back to the flat we shared before my marriage. Let myself walk up the seventeen stairs and across the flat to his room. Pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck and slide my hands up under his shirt. Gasped out what he meant to me in broken utterances of his name.

Though I can’t think of it with anything but guilt, or colour my actions as anything other than selfish, I can’t regret it. That I pressed myself against my friend and took advantage of the rush he always got from solving a case to be close to him 

After his death, knowing we had had that last time with his hands sliding with calculated care over my body haunted my dreams for months. Those last moments to whisper love into each other’s ears tangled on the same bed I had broken my vows so often. The irregular snatched hours I stole with Sherlock caused my Mary so much pain but I came alive in them. The knowledge his touch imparted was more precious than all his eloquent speeches. To know truly his eyes I hadn’t fucked it up badly enough yet for him to want nothing to do with me it was always worth all the pain it caused my Mary.

I loved feeling his body hard against mine, unforgiving planes of muscle where my Mary was soft and yielding. Forcing me down and making me take him. Controlling me and binding me closer to him and further under his power with every bruise he pressed into my skin for Mary to find later; for her to sob, cry and go still over. For her to cajole and beg from me promises we both knew I would never keep until her too tender heart was broken into pieces and I had pissed all her gentle love away. Only to realise he was gone and I irrevocably broken.

To feel him shake and tremble as he used my body for his pleasure and know I am the only person he would have used. The heavy weight of his body on mine, burning indelibly onto my skin.


End file.
